


A Rift in Time

by inaudibleDIN



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Arlathan, Elvhen Pantheon, Elvhenan, F/M, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-02
Updated: 2015-08-03
Packaged: 2018-04-12 14:15:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,997
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4482377
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inaudibleDIN/pseuds/inaudibleDIN
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fen'harel had been content to live as a god among the Elvhen for thousands of years. This is the story of the slave who dismantled that complacency and inspired a revolution and how, together, they managed to shake the very fabric of time itself. [After he is captured, Alexius sends Lavellan back in time where she encounters a very different Solas and a very disappointing Arlathan. This story, when complete, will fit seamlessly into the main storyline and will not disrupt the headcanon.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> **A/N:** While this is the first story I am posting on AO3,  A Rift in Time is not the first story in my DAI series featuring Inquisitor Sahlin Lavellan. This will ultimately be one of three stories, and I am posting this one first primarily because it has piqued my interest the most and also because it deals with events that chronologically precede the main storyline.
> 
> Time travel is actually one of my least favorite concepts in storytelling, but I've had this idea for months and I needed to see it through. 
> 
> **I thrive on reviews and constructive criticism, so any and all feedback is always welcome and appreciated!**
> 
> Clarification: During chapters in which two elvhen characters are speaking to one another, they are speaking in ancient elvish. It's fairly self-explanatory as you read and I trust you'd have figured that out, but it never hurts to clarify. Translations are as follows for this chapter ONLY. All other chapters will provide in-text translation when necessary.
> 
>  **TRANSLATIONS**  
>  Dirthara-man na tel'shiral Elgar'Inan, din'rivas: May that teach you not to venture into the Spirit World, slave.  
> Dar atisha, ma'len: Be easy, my child  
> Da'asha dirth shemlen?: The girl speaks the language of the humans?  
>    
>  **Rated T for now, may shift to M in later chapters.**

Sahlin Lavellan shifted in the enormous monstrosity of a chair, certain she looked absolutely ridiculous: a Dalish elf sitting on a throne. The very notion of it was preposterous, even to her. A Qunari at least would have managed to fill out the massive seat. As it was, Sahlin was forced to sit perched at the very end of what had to be the least forgiving cushion her backside had ever crested just to prevent her feet from dangling beneath her like a child's. The elf grit her teeth, suppressing the urge to shift again; she could still hear the ambassador's warning ringing between her ears: " _Remember, you must not fidget. That_ is _fidgeting, my lady. Now put your feet here. No, not like that. Here."_ Her eyes found Josephine standing apart from the crowd, just to the right of the throne's dais. The ambassador caught her gaze and gave her a quick, assuring nod. They believed in her. Josephine, Leliana, even the commander in his unique way, believed in her; they had elected her to serve as the leader of their Inquisition. And though she had agreed, Sahlin couldn’t help but wonder now if she might have reconsidered, had they told her the Inquisitor was also responsible for sitting in judgment of their captives, for passing sentences and doling out punishments. It was one thing to defend herself against an assailant, to kill a man who charged at her; it was quite another to see a man in chains on his knees before her and decide him still deserving of death.

Directly across from her, at the far end of the hall, Skyhold’s massive doors were being drawn open. The sound of wood scraping against metal echoed through the Great Hall, signaling that the time for contemplations and second-guessing was over. Sahlin straightened herself one last time and sucked in a deep breath. Almost in unison, heads began to turn as those who gathered to watch the proceedings strained to get their first glimpse of the prisoner. Sahlin’s gaze moved to follow the others, but the feeling of a pair of eyes still upon her drew her attention from the doors. She found him standing straight-backed amid the Inquisition forces, grey-blue eyes watching her with a wry glint, wholly indifferent to the retinue of guards escorting the imprisoned magister through the Hall. As her eyes met his, he held her gaze with such intensity, such confidence, that for a moment, she forgot to breathe.

_A hand pressed against her waist, drawing her back into his embrace. A look, a single look of warning and wanting, of better judgment and not caring. Then his fingers were in her hair, hard and calloused, cradling her cheek, slipping beneath her chin, tilting her lips toward his. His mouth on hers, warm and soft and devouring, taking the breath from her chest, demanding still more. And then, nothing. Hands pushing her away. Another look, of longing and regret, of better judgment restored._

_"Solas?" she barely breathed his name, lungs still wanting for air._

_"We shouldn't." His veneer returned, quiet and confident, superior. "It isn't right, not even here."_

"You recall Gereon Alexius of Tevinter."

Sahlin jumped at the sound of the ambassador’s voice, and she could feel the color rushing to her cheeks. Of all the times to be caught daydreaming! She could only hope no one else had noticed. The Inquisitor forced the Fade-memory from her thoughts and turned her attention to the magister, kneeling before her. Gereon Alexius. She had expected to see the righteous curl of his upper lip or the deranged light in his eyes, but the magister’s head was bowed low, obscuring his dark features. Still, she could live a thousand lifetimes and never forget that face.

“Ferelden has given him to us in acknowledgement of your aid,” Josephine continued. If she had noticed the Inquisitor’s lapse in focus, she didn’t let on. “The formal charges are apostasy, attempted enslavement, and attempted assassination—on your own life, no less. Tevinter has disowned and stripped him of his rank. You may judge the former magister as your see fit.”

Sahlin dropped her chin just barely, thanking the ambassador for her heraldry. Josephine responded with a slight bow of her own and then stepped back from the dais. It was all a practiced routine. Days earlier, Josephine had spent hours schooling her on trial decorum, the expected gestures and statements. For her part, Sahlin had listened, trying to remember the series of movements and responses the ambassador rattled off. For her part, Sahlin hoped she had performed sensibly enough, and a quick glance at Josephine told her she had. The ambassador was not smiling openly, but Sahlin could see feel the approval in her look. It was all the encouragement she needed.

The Inquisitor returned her attention to Alexius, and a new sense of certainty took hold in her. This was one trial that didn’t require any hesitation or second-guessing. He would have killed them all, given the chance, but not before he had tortured the men and women she had come to think of as family, not before he had snuffed out the fire in Leliana’s eyes and silenced the melody of Solas’s voice. She would not lose sleep over sentencing the magister to a quicker death than he deserved.

Sahlin’s eyes never once left the Alexius, but when she spoke, she was careful to raise her voice loudly enough for the throng to hear. “I remember what would have happened to Thedas,” she said, “if your teachery had succeeded.” I remember the red lyrium growing from the castle walls, she wanted to scream at him. I remember the torture chambers and the demons. I remember watching my friends die. I remember it all. The words beat against her lips, wanting to be heard. But she refused to give the magister that satisfaction, to let him know how profoundly his nightmarish future still haunted her dreams.

At the base of the dais, Alexius raised his gaze to meet hers but it was a blank, emotionless stare that looked back at her. “I couldn’t save my son,” the Tevinter replied, tone as vacant as his eyes. “Do you think my fate matters to me?”

Sahlin could not have cared less what did or did not matter to him, but Josephine had already prepared her for this moment, for what she was to say in return. “Will you offer nothing more in your defense?” she asked with as much indifference as she could inflect on the words.

The magister's balding head hung low, ignoring her. Sahlin was prepared to continue, to take his silence as a concession, when Alexius abruptly looked up. The blank look in his eyes had receded, replaced with a sharp hatred, and the Inquisitor allowed the faintest smile to trace her lips; it was a feral, victorious grin. She wanted to see the hatred in him, to know that he realized how entirely he had failed.

“You’ve won nothing,” the magister spat, lashing out like a wounded mabari. “The people you saved, the acclaim you gathered, you’ll lose it all in the storm to come.” Alexius’s voice rose with each word until the magister was on his feet. Sahlin’s pulse increased with the tempo of the magister’s words, and she could already see the Inquisition guards moving to subdue their prisoner. Alexius lunged forward as they closed on him. “You’ll lose it all… _now_!” he shouted.

Sahlin leapt from the throne, reaching for the staff at her back that wasn’t there. Screams filled the Great Hall, and she was vaguely aware of the throng stampeding for the door as the sound of an explosion filled her ears. The floor beneath her shook and the room seemed to fold in on itself. Sahlin reached out, grasping in all directions as the ground gave way beneath her. Alexius was no longer in sight, and she was falling backwards into blackness, careening into a silence so deafening it drowned out the shouts, the explosion, everything.

Her shoulder hit the ground first and Sahlin was sure she heard something snap just before she felt her face collide with the stone floor. Then she was hurtling, legs over shoulders, arms over feet, head over heels down a flight of stairs. She grasped desperately for something—anything—to hold onto but her head spiraled, spinning in and out of focus. Everything was covered in snow; the walls of Skyhold were gone. And then, without warning, the world went black.

**o – o – o – o - o**

"You're going to like this, brother." Andruil fingered the tip of an arrow, her brown-almost-black eyes watching him from over its point.

Fen'harel lifted a brow but did not bother to look up from his reading. He rarely cared for matters brought to his attention by Andruil, though that hardly seemed to abate her pestering. There were times when he feared they had walked this earth for too long already, that they were each going mad in their own unique way, the huntress most of all.

"Won't you ask me what I know?" Andruil pursed her lips into a pout that was more unbecoming than it was enticing, but he knew the woman well enough to realize she would not leave until she had spoken her piece.

"What is it then?" he growled, gaze still fixed on the page before him. "What do you know?"

"One of mother's slaves dropped out of the sky this morning. Well, I suppose the priests say she fell from the Fade, but what do they know anyway?" For the first time, Fen'harel looked up at her, mouth half-agape. That earned him a quick smirk from the huntress before she turned to leave. "I thought that would capture your attention," she teased. Andruil's voice echoed through the corridor as she made her way to the Eluvian. "Oh, and by the way, mother is asking for you."

Fen'harel had slammed his book shut long before he heard the last of her words. _Dropped out of the sky?_ For once, the Dread Wolf made haste to follow after the huntress.

**o – o – o – o - o**

The world came crashing back into existence all at once, too bright and too loud. Sahlin clenched her eyes shut, pressing a hand against her temples. Everything hurt. She was vaguely aware of voices talking somewhere nearby, but they were too loud or too wrong for her to make out anything coherent. Was that elvish? She tried to hold onto the words, but the world was already going black again…

When Sahlin awoke for the second time, the pain was duller and the world felt softer. She was able to open her eyes and keep them open and, slowly, the room around her came into focus. At first, she could just barely make out its colors and shapes: a pale wall here, a bright chair there. Above her, the ceiling was a swirl of translucent blues and whites. She knew that couldn’t be right. Her thoughts ached. _Everything_ ached. All around her, the room was a blur. Shadows and flashes of color ran together like paint made with too much water.

“Dirthara-man na tel'shiral Elgar'Inan, din'rivas."

The words tore through her like an arrow through the skull and for a moment, Sahlin thought the world would go black again. But this time, the colors and shadows remained, lingering just within her vision.

Another voice was speaking, this one softer and more bearable than the first. “Dar atisha, ma’len,” it said.

Sahlin struggled to make out the words, but they were too quick and the accent too foreign. It sounded like some form of elvish. But the few words she did understand refused to make sense; it was as if someone had flipped open the Keeper’s dictionary and selected words at random to shove together. Her head throbbed. The two women—she was fairly certain both voices belonged to women—continued their exchange in their all-wrong elvish, but Sahlin could already feel the edges of her vision beginning to cloud again.

“The Great Hall…” she stuttered, trying to hold onto what shred of consciousness she had left. It was such a vague memory, but she was sure it was somehow important. Skyhold, the Inquisition, Alexius. Her eyes widened as the memories returned. “The explosion!” she gasped. There had been an explosion at Skyhold, she was sure of it now.

“Da’asha dirth shemlen?” It was the first woman again, the one with the loud, piercing voice.

Sahlin squinted in the direction of the shadow she thought belonged to the speaker. It was little more than a dark wisp of black, but Sahlin thought if she could make out any details, the woman would be glaring at her. None of it made any sense.

“ _Dirth shem-len?”_ the dark wisp spoke slower this time, annunciating each word. The pronunciations still grated against her ears and the words didn’t seem to fit together properly, but Sahlin finally thought she understood the question.

“Yes,” she whispered—it hurt less if she whispered, “yes, I am. I’m speaking shem.” Speaking shem, it sounded absurd; she spoke Common, like everyone else at Skyhold. Her heart missed a beat. This wasn’t Skyhold. The realization fell on her like a weight of bricks. This wasn’t Skyhold. But then where was she? Tevinter? That would explain the strange accents. This wasn't Skyhold.

Across the room, the shadow-figures had all started talking at once, the two women and a man now as well. She thought the new voice sounded vaguely familiar, but it was impossible to tell with the accent and the speed at which they spoke. Sahlin strained her ears, listening. It wasn’t Tevene. She was sure of it. Whatever they were speaking it was some broken, mottled form of elvish. That calmed her somewhat, but it still didn’t explain where she was.

“Where did you get this amulet?” It was the man who spoke, this time in Common. More importantly, she knew that voice. 

Sahlin strained to find its source, to make out anything more than foggy shadows. How did she know that voice? It was a distant memory, a melody lingering just beyond her reach. The shadow that belonged to him was moving closer, until it stood almost directly in front of her. She could just barely make out the dark grey of his robes, lined with silver embroidery. Beyond his robes the other two shadows were coming into focus as well: one was still little more than a black wisp, the other a slightly more corporeal blue figure.

“Do you understand me?” the grey robes shifted as the man in front of her bent down, bringing his face nearer to hers. His appearance sharped enough for her to make out long, red-brown hair and a pale, angular face. Sahlin strained to make out more details, but there was another flash of grey as his hand moved, drawing her attention with it. “Where did you get this?”

She squinted at the object, but it was oscillating back and forth in his grasp, a black and yellow blur that could have been anything. She gave up on the object and turned her attention back to the man holding it. She knew him somehow, she was certain. If she could just make out—

“Look at it, da’len,” he said. And the memory fell into place.

“Solas.” Sahlin barely breathed the word, but she knew it was true. The voice was his, it had to be. The accent was different, harder somewhow, and he spoke more quickly than usual, but there was no mistaking it now. The man crouched in front of her was Solas.

“A pride demon?” he remarked. But Sahlin was no longer listening. She could feel the tears burning against her cheeks and relief swelling in her chest. She was still in Skyhold. The injury to her head must have been severe, but if Solas was with her, it would only be a matter of time before he and the Inquisition healers managed to repair her injuries and return her to new.

Sahlin closed her eyes, certain it would be safe enough to sleep, if only for a little while longer…

“A _demon_ gave this to you?” Solas demanded, so loudly it threatened to split her head in two.

A demon? What was he talking about? Sahlin forced herself to open her eyes once more. Solas’s blurred face still lingered just in front of hers, shrouded in a reddish brown. Was that hair? It was getting harder to think, but Solas was speaking again, his voice higher now, more urgent.

“How were you able to enter the Fade?” His tone set her nerves on edge. If Solas refused to let her rest, then something must have gone terribly wrong.

Sahlin swallowed a deep breath and braced herself. She needed to sit up, to clear her head. Solas was still crouched in front of her, and she moved to brace herself against him. She lifted a hand to his shoulder and used her other hand to hold onto his arm, hauling herself up.

“Solas, stop,” she panted, blinking back the searing pain that tore through her skull. “You’re not making any sense. What demon?” If she thought the black wisp was loud, her own voice was almost deafening as it ricocheted between her ears. “Where’s Cassandra?”

Solas’s arm tensed beneath her fingers, and Sahlin raised her gaze to his. She could just barely make out his eyes. They were the same, intense grey-blue she remembered, but the similarities stopped there. There was nothing of Solas in that look; the eyes that met hers were hard and threatening, dangerous. Sahlin froze.

“You go too far, slave,” Solas whispered.

Without warning, Solas grabbed hold of the hand she had rested on his arm and wrenched it back. The corners of her vision darkened in pain and Sahlin hoped she was fighting against him. Somewhere, far away, she felt like she was, like she was kicking and screaming for him to let her go. But the world was going black again and she could feel herself falling, falling…


	2. Chapter 2

"The girl is obviously mad."

Andruil lounged restlessly against a pillar, a dead fox clutched in one hand, a skinning knife in the other. The huntress spoke to no one in particular; it was little more than an idle thought, uttered aloud as her fingers deftly navigated her blade beneath the fox's pelt, hewing away at the muscles and tendons still holding its hide in place. It was a distraction, nothing more, a means to occupying her hands and her thoughts while they waited. There was a time when the huntress would have considered it an outrage to steal another creature’s soul for her own amusement, to snuff out its life without reason. But so much had changed over the last millennia, the huntress included. Their race was quickening with the advent of the shemlen in the north, and there were those among the humans who were developing the gifts of the Fade. Everything, it seemed, stood on the precipice of change and rather than rising to meet the revolution that awaited them, they were slipping further and further into the darkest parts of themselves.

From where he sat, Fen’harel could see the same anxious lines of impatience etched across the faces of the others, his adopted brethren. Change was indeed upon them and a summoning of the entire pantheon was no longer a common occurrence. Many of those who had gathered were growing uncomfortable in the presence of their ever-silent All-Father. Elgar’nan himself seemed not to hear the idle chatter of his many children. He so rarely did. The man reclined easily against his high-backed throne, looking every bit the image of a god. His black hair hung in dreaded locks well past the middle of his back, and his cool eyes—almost as black as Andruil’s—stared out across the empty welcoming hall, the Andaran’an of his own Temple, as though it were crowded with worshippers still, come to behold him in all his stately glory. But it had been centuries since the People had visited their Makers in throngs, crowding their Temples, clamoring for the adoration or protection of those who had raised them to immortality.

“Mad or not,” Dirthamen said, jarring Fen’harel from his thoughts, “if what the priests say is true, the slave certainly warrants some inspection.” The secret-master stood behind his throne, pale hands resting idly against its marbled back. “Even Falon’din does not possess such an ability. Imagine—”

"Yes," Andruil cut in, "where is your better half, brother? Surely his insight would be of more value on this matter."

Dirthamen shrank under Andruil’s triumphant glare, and Fen’harel supposed the secret-master had somehow managed to earn the huntress’s disfavor of late. They were caught in an eternal triangle of exchanged affections and hurt feelings, the huntress and the dread twins. Ghilan’nain eyed the pair of them from the seat of Andruil’s throne, her expression impassive. It had taken the halla-mother centuries to master that look, to mask the defeat and jealousy in her eyes each time Andruil took a new lover. In time, Fen’harel knew the huntress would return to her and, in time, Ghilan’nain would accept her lover once again without reservation. Entire races rose and fell, civilizations flickered into existence only to expire centuries later, mountains grew and crumbled, streams ran full and dried, and still their endless spats remained the same.

“She is not wrong.”

June’s voice was low at Fen’harel’s ear, barely a whisper. The dread-wolf kept his gaze fixed on the amulet strung between his fingers, trying to shake the thoughts of the past and the imminence of their future from his mind. The craftsman had a point, for once Andruil was right. Falon’din should have arrived by now. There were six members of the pantheon already gathered in Elgar’nan’s great temple. Mythal, the All-Mother, and Sylaise, the healer, still remained with the slave. Only Falon’din’s absence was unexcused.

Fen’harel shifted in his seat, trying to find a more comfortable perch between its sharp edges. In truth, the throne belonged to June, but the craftsman was rarely capable of sitting still long enough to occupy it, so Fen’harel had claimed the seat as his own. His long legs were draped carelessly across one armrest, while his back reclined against the other. June, meanwhile, sat at the dread-wolf’s back, observing his kin.

“Is it true?” the craftsman continued in his half-whisper. “About the mark on the slave’s hand, that it pulses with the magic of the Fade?”

Fen’harel lowered the amulet. He could still feel the sensation of the slave’s hand against his chest and the potency of the magic its mark held. Hers was a magic too rapidly receding from this world, a sympathetic form that resonated with the rhythms of the Fade. Yes, he thought in response to June’s question, it was true. But there had been something intimate about that touch as well, something that had nothing to do with a slave’s audacity to reach out a hand to her Maker, unbidden. It was not his memory to share, he decided. To the craftsman at his back, he merely shrugged.

“I do not know,” he said, “perhaps it is—”

“Oh she _is_ a feisty one!” Falon’din’s voice filled the Andaran’an, eclipsing Fen’harel’s hushed words.

The death-lord made his way across Elgar’nan’s Temple, followed closely by Sylaise and Mythal, a juxtaposition that gave him an even more sinister appearance than usual. Falon’din’s dark hair danced out behind him with the speed of his gait, mixing with the folds of his black cloak, and making it impossible to tell where one ended and the other began. Behind him, Sylaise appeared wearier than usual, her normally pleasant countenance knotted in concern. Even Mythal seemed somewhat lost in thought. It did not bode well for the slave, Fen’harel thought, that the death-lord alone among the healer and the All-Mother, looked pleased.

“Go on then,” Andruil called to Falon’din, “tell us what you know, as you have obviously been with the slave while the rest us waited here at father’s request.” The huntress’s dark eyes glared at her brother and then at the half-skinned carcass in her hand. With a huff, she tossed the animal aside and rubbed her hands against her breeches.

 “Who better than I to investigate a curiosity of the Fade, sister?” Falon’din replied, a contorted smirk upon his lips. “When I received father’s message, I knew mother would desire my counsel.”

June snorted, just barely bothering to stifle a laugh. It was already known among the members of the pantheon that Mythal had sent for the dread-wolf and not Falon’din when the slave was first discovered. For his part, Fen’harel merely smiled. He and Falon’din agreed so rarely on matters of the Fade that he sometimes wondered whether they even walked the same realm.

Next to them, the death-lord tossed back his black cloak and slid into the seat of his throne with all the regality of Elgar’nan himself. “You should know, brother,” he sneered, “our mother and sister were fortunate I was there. Sylaise was far too generous in her ministrations. When our dear sister finished healing the slave, the wretch awoke and began attacking on site. She left a servant and two slaves frozen solid and a third slave dead. I was able to subdue her, of course, and she has been banded. Even that mark on her hand is inert now.”

“So it _is_ a mark from the Fade, then?” Ghilan’nain asked. Fen’harel arced a brow; he had almost forgotten the lyrical sound of the halla-mother’s voice. It had been decades since he had heard her speak.

“Of course it is,” Falon’din retorted. “How else could a slave manage to escape?”

Fen’harel was pondering what exactly it was that the slave needed to escape from, when June gave voice to his thoughts.

“Escape from what?” the craftsman laughed. “I doubt tumbling down a mountainside and drawing the attention of the entire pantheon constitutes an escape from anything!”

Falon’din leaned forward, poised to retaliate, when Mythal intervened.

“From her time, my son,” the All-Mother said. That caught his attention. The dread-wolf and his kin gaped at Mythal, trying to make sense of her words. To their collective confusion, the All-Mother explained, “The girl is a slave, it is true, and I imagine she is one of my own, though not yet.” Fen’harel’s mouth was already open when Mythal raised a hand to silence their questioning. Though not yet? “The slave’s grasp on our language is rudimentary at best. She speaks primarily in the language of the shemlen. No, Andruil, I do not believe it to be a ruse.” Across the chamber, the huntress crossed her arms with a huff. Even she shrank beneath the All-Mother’s knowing gaze. “The girl’s hair is cropped shorter than any of the People, even a slave, would dare,” Mythal continued. “And although the blood writing on her face is my own, it is embellished in a fashion I have never seen.” Mythal paused a moment, apparently lost in her own thoughts. When she continued, she shook her head, as if to assure herself her explanation was the only possible one. “No,” she said, “I daresay the slave is not of our time, but rather from a period that has not yet come to pass, perhaps from a moment in time she wanted to escape, or possibly to improve her lot in this world. Regardless, the girl’s justification for traipsing across time is irrelevant. Our first concern must be in understanding how she was able to achieve such a thing.”

Fen’harel could only stare at the All-Mother, his thoughts reeling. To his left, Falon’ din smiled out at his kin in victory, chest swelling with the importance of having been made privy to Mythal’s information long before his siblings.

“You are certain of this?” Elgar’nan asked, his voice reverberating across the Andaran’an like thunder through a valley. The All-Father would have likely dismissed any of his children who made such a claim, but for all his harsher qualities, he trusted in Mythal.

The All-Mother inclined her head. “I am as certain as I can be,” she said. “The girl has said little but to object that she is not a slave and that she has been displaced in time. While I would expect the first of any runaway, the latter does offer some explanation for an unlikely number of realities. I will not pretend to know how it is possible, but I would like to find out.”

“And what of the amulet that appeared with her?” June asked. “Surely that cannot be coincidence.”

“The demon’s amulet, you mean?” Andruil spoke up, eager to prove she was also privy to information the others were not. “I suppose a spirit could contrive—”

“There was no demon,” Sylaise interrupted, earning a vicious glare from the huntress. “The ‘Solas’ the girl spoke of is a name, not a demon, I believe. In fact, I think she may have thought Fen’harel was this person. Perhaps he bears your mischievous look, brother.” Sylaise smiled warmly at Fen’harel, and it was comforting to see her returned to her usual composure.

The innocence of her jest, however, was lost on Elgar’nan. “If the slave knows the dread-wolf well enough to name him for his pride,” the All-Father grumbled, “perhaps she is of our time after all, and as great a charlatan as the wolf himself.” Fen’harel felt his ears burn red, and neither the dark twins for Andruil could stifle their laughing. But Elgar’nan was in no mood for frivolity, even that born of his own ill will. “Enough,” he growled, effectively silencing his children. “We have speculated far longer than necessary. Bring in the slave and lets us be done with this.”


End file.
